


Checkmate

by amarillogrande



Series: A Dangerous Game [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Demon Dean, Demon Dean Winchester, M/M, Mark of Cain, Prequel, References to Dean/Other(s), kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:07:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2360642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarillogrande/pseuds/amarillogrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world isn't tinted black.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Dean opens his eyes into his new life as a demon. Prequel to 'The King Has Fallen'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Checkmate

**Author's Note:**

> HEADS UP:
> 
> Crowley dies in pretty much the very first bit of that. If that is something you want to skip, go right ahead. He doesn't feature much in this story.
> 
> Also, this has been sitting in my drafts pretty much since July and with all the new promos and stuff I was finally motivated to finish it. WHO'S EXCITED FOR S10?????

The world isn’t tinted black.

 

But everything is different. It’s all clearer. Sharper.

Dean can sense everything.

 

He can hear the whir of the radiator in the next room. The scratching of a spider, deep in the ground, below the floor. And somewhere nearby, the sound of a voice—a strangely familiar voice performing a summoning spell—(He rankles against it, instinctively.) He can even hear the sound of distant traffic from the highway near the bunker.

And the beating of a heart.

A cold black heart.

 

“Awake now, princess?” A cool voice asks.

Dean turns his head slowly, eyes settling on the figure sitting in the corner.

It stands slowly and saunters over, the face graced with a thoroughly irritating smile.

“The New Cain,” Crowley murmurs. “A true Knight of Hell.”

His eyes light up with barely-concealed excitement, but Dean doesn’t move. He merely watches, as Crowley continues to spew irritations.

“You have no idea,” he breathes, his petty face glowing with undisguised glee. “How long I’ve _waited_ for this. Hell has slacked off in the last few years, but you—”

Dean exhales slowly, fading away Crowley’s voice into the background, instead taking stock of his new senses.

He blinks. There’s a deep crack in the ceiling, fine as a hair—nearly indistinguishable in the plaster. And beneath him—the tremors of the earth as it shifts on its bed of magma.

He breathes in and tastes the sharp tang of iron on his tongue, a remnant of his bloody death.

He swallows, reveling in it.

 

In the background, he’s vaguely aware of Crowley babbling on. Dean turns his head, listening with a sort of passive indifference.

“The last of Lucifer’s chosen.”

Crowley kneels by his bedside.

“What a servant of Hell should be,” he murmurs. “And now, with you at my side…”

His eyes glint, and there’s no mistaking that self-righteous expression on his face.

“No one will dare stand in our way,” he breathes.

He smiles, and Dean shifts, flexing his fingers.

“We’ll finally take back this world, claim it for its rightful owners,” he leers. “And then, we will—“

Crowley makes only a sort of surprised noise when Dean seizes his heart.

 

Dean tilts his head, meeting those eyes. He twists his wrist and Crowley chokes, blood spitting from his lips.

“You talk too much,” Dean hisses.

 

He rips his hand back, and Crowley collapses into a messy pile on the floor, the sound of that irritating heart finally ceasing.

Dean smiles, the new dark thing inside him crowing with victory.

And he hasn’t even sat up yet.

 

Dean straightens slowly, bringing his hand up in front of his face. He ignores Crowley’s twitches and convulsions—watching as the red rivulets stream down his arm, calmly watching their beautiful path. They collect in a soft pool at his elbow, dripping silently onto the bedspread beneath.

 

Dean then realizes there’s something else, a solid shape burning hot underneath his touch—

Oh.

Dean delicately wraps his fingers around the hilt, holding it up to the light.

The Blade.

His blade.

Pretty thing, he thinks, thumb tracing over the ragged teeth set in the edge. And now his own. His very own.

The Mark on his forearm tingles.

 

And for the first time, he smiles.

 

 

He moves quickly then, sliding off the bed, kneeling beside Crowley’s still shaking body. He props his chin up on the handle of the blade, just watching. The demon inside is struggling in vain to hold on, even though the human vessel is already dead.

Dean cocks his head curiously. Crowley is thrashing against his meat prison, desperately trying to escape. Dean surges with a violent pride once he realizes it’s his own power that’s holding the bastard in place.

 

“De-Dean—“ Crowley chokes out, hands scrambling at nothing. But Dean just leers, grinning down at him.

He places the tip of the blade to Crowley’s stomach, sneering down at him.

“Always told you I’d gut you, Crowley.”

The disgraced king only gurgles in response, his throat choked with blood. Dean scoffs, twisting the blade sharply.

Crowley doesn’t disappoint. He lets out a strangled sound, desperately begging for mercy.

Dean just smiles, leaning down close.

He makes sure Crowley is looking into his eyes.

“Never thought it’d be so literal.”

He thrusts downward with a brutal shove, those orange sparks sizzling and popping around the Blade.

Dean is the only witness when Crowley finally dies, his meatsuit loosening and going still.

 

 

Dean doesn’t move for several minutes. He just breathes, taking in the world around him.

Everything is silent and still. There’s still those infuriating prayers for help outside—desperately knocking against his new consciousness—and he growls under his breath, every muscle in him tensing. A faint spark—some remnant of who he used to be is struggling to claw its way to the surface, biting and nipping at his mind—but Dean easily pushes it back, instead focusing on the blood dribbling from the wound beneath his fingers.

He closes his eyes, heaving a great sigh.

Blood. Beautiful, beautiful, blood.

 

It’s hot and thick, feeling so right underneath his touch.

 

Dean lets the feeling consume him, and he smirks, drawing his hand back from the mess. He tightens his grip on the hilt of the blade, standing slowly.

He looks down at Crowley’s lifeless corpse, letting a triumphant smile cross his face.

 

 

 

“Long live the King,” he whispers.

 

* * *

 

“He’s—”

Sam sucks in a deep breath, hunching over.

“He’s in his room,” he hushes out.

Castiel nods, unseeing.

 

Sam avoids his eyes.

“I tried to…c-clean him up.”

His hands grip at the table in front of him, fumbling uselessly at the wood before they clasp together, knuckles turning white.

“As—as best as I could,” he whispers.

 

 

Castiel sees the shake in Sam’s shoulders, the tremble in his voice. And he can sense the alcohol in his system—flooding his thoughts, and perhaps contributing to the slight unsteadiness in his footsteps.

Castiel suspects it’s the only reason he’s so calm.

 

He stands, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Sam leans into the touch like it’s a lifeline. 

 

 

He hiccups, hunched over in the too-small chair.

“Even called goddamn Crowley,” he chokes out.

 

Castiel says nothing. Part of him does not agree with that particular path of action—but the other part of him understands, even approves of Sam’s motivations.

 

Castiel closes his eyes, digging his nails into the skin of his palm.

He had not wanted to come. He should have stayed in Heaven, to help with the reformation of their world, to help calm the chaos after the capture of Metatron.

 

But those words sat heavy in his heart.

 

_He’s dead too._

Castiel had to know. He had to make sure it wasn’t another lie.

 

 

 

Hope, Castiel learned, was one of the cruelest human evils.

When he called Sam, the tearful silence on the other end told him everything he needed to know.

Dean was gone.

 

 

Everything seemed to float away from him then—hateful and dark. The world was suddenly harsher, blacker—even Hannah’s gentle voice grated against his consciousness like a thousand knives—and Castiel fled, he fled…like a coward…

 

He’s glad Sam did not ask. Because he couldn’t. Not now, not with his stolen grace pitching and fighting against him for release. It was hard to believe that just a few short years ago, he had been a being powerful enough to lay siege to Hell. A being that could rescue a bright beautiful soul.

Now, he was nothing.

 

 

 

“May I see him?”

 

x

 

His steps echo in the hallway. Just hearing them sets Castiel’s teeth on edge.

He rounds the corner to see a faint light, shining through the open door at the end of the hallway. Castiel stops abruptly.

 

He takes a couple deep breaths, clenching his fists.

Honestly, he’s not sure how he will react. His grip on his emotions has always been inconsistent—fragile at best—and now, with his dwindling grace serving to make him even more unpredictable, more human…

He wasn’t sure if he would be able to stop the tears this time.

Catiel had yet to shed real tears.

He would not have expected them to come at the death of his friend.

His best friend. His—

Castiel draws in a shuddering breath, looking down.

 

 

Something within him hardens, and he straightens, settling his shoulders.

He steels himself, closes the distance swiftly, and—

He stops dead just inside the doorway.

He stares.

 

“Sam,” he whispers.

 

He whirls, shouting for him.

 

 

 

“SAM!”

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing he does is get some proper clothes.

 

“This is the best I can do on such short notice.”

“Hmm.”

“It might take me a few days to get the tailored suit done, obviously—“

“Yes.”

“And we’re backed up with orders right now—“

Dean steps on the edge of the man’s tie, pinning him where he was working on the hem of his left pant leg.

“I strongly suggest you put this one first,” he says, not taking his eyes off the mirror.

“S-sir. Yes. Of—of course.”

The man putters and fusses, frantic and irritating. Dean ignores him, instead turning to focus on his reflection.

Jet-black suit, blood red tie. Irritating as this man was, he did know style.

 

The tailor continues his work, sticking in pins and muttering to himself. Dean flexes his arm, feeling the Mark underneath the sleeve’s material. He closes his eyes, breathing out.

There was so much to discover. So much _power_.

Before, he was dulled, distracted by human emotions—but now the Mark is singing, _calling_ to him—echoing with the memories and its whole joyful history, the bloodstained trail now his very own.

 

Dean shudders, tipping his head back. The man at his feet pauses only slightly, but the glare Dean shoots his way quickly gets him going again.

He idly adjusts one of his cuffs, thinking.

He couldn’t have left Crowley on the floor like that, he tells himself. Too obvious, much too obvious. But useful, a test for his new powers. Dean had experimented, and discovered he could banish the creep back to Hell. It was where he belonged, after all.

And they would say Dean was cruel.

 

He couldn’t do anything about his own disappearance though. Constructing a phantom body was slightly out of his reach. For now.

 

The tailor steps back, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

“That’ll do for now.”

Dean eyes his reflection appreciatively.

“Perfect,” he murmurs.

 

Then he turns on his heel, striding towards the front of the shop.

“Sir—Sir! We haven’t discussed payment—“

The man reaches out to tap his shoulder, and Dean has him pinned against the wall in a heartbeat.

“No,” he murmurs, shoving a hand against his throat. “We haven’t.”

The man gulps, his pupils dilating in fear. Dean almost wants to laugh. He had no idea.

He reaches a hand up, and the man flinches.

“I’ll let you live,” he says softly, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “How’s that?”

The man swallows, not daring to look away. Dean smiles slowly.

“And the next time you question me…”

He lets the words linger.

“I’ll take your eyes.”

 

* * *

 

“Cas?”

 

Sam rushes to his side, breathing hard. Castiel doesn’t answer.

He halts in the doorway, breathing hard. When he sees the empty bed, he blanks.

“Did you—“

Sam darts inside the room, looking around desperately.

“He was here, he was—I don’t—“

He starts ripping at the bedsheets, upturning every last thing in the room.

 

Castiel is frozen. Sam finally whirls, a wild kind of hope in his eyes.

“You think—you think maybe he’s alive?”

Sam lets out a short hysterical laugh, eyes darting everywhere.

“Maybe I was wrong, maybe he’s—“

He cuts off, darting down the hall, shouting for him.

“Dean!”

Castiel can’t move. Sam’s voice shakes through him.

“DEAN!”

 

Castiel forces himself to move. He can’t bring himself to hope.

Never again.

 

He drops to his knees, and clasps his hands. And he prays.

 

* * *

 

 

He straightens his cuffs, admiring the black sheen of his suit.

“By now I’m sure you’ve heard the tragic news.”

Dean turns easily, smiling.

“Crowley is dead.”

There’s a soft murmuring from the demons in front of him. Dean raises an eyebrow, and they quickly fall silent.

“Abaddon is dead.”

Complete silence this time. Dean nods in approval.

“And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that it was me who killed them both.”

He glances up briefly. No one moves a muscle. He smiles.

“But I like to brag,” he says, smirking.

 

He settles back easily in the chair, lazily watching the line of demons. Expendable, compared to him, obviously—but he did need some sort of organization. They would have to do.

“Seems this campaign for control of Hell has been unexpectedly cut short.”

He smiles, reveling in their fear.

“But there’s a new sheriff in town.”

* * *

 

 

The muted sounds of Sam’s desperate tear through the rooms of the bunker filter down to him, but Castiel cannot join in.

He dips his head and takes a deep breath to ground himself—and instantly recoils.

 

He snatches his hand back, scrambling away until his back hits wood.

_No_ , he thinks. _No. That’s not possible._

The smell of death. Not Dean—he would recognize that anywhere—but instead—

The violent tang of sulfuric blood staining the air.

Crowley. 

 

Castiel takes deep breaths, inching forward.

He had been here, he thinks wildly. Crowley had been here, not an hour ago, and he had bled.

Castiel rakes his eyes over the room, examining it swiftly, but he can find no trace of him.

“No,” he breathes aloud.

 

He takes shaking steps forward, placing a hand on the pillow there.

Despite his fading grace and his senses becoming ever duller, he can still feel it.

There had been a body lying on this bed. Just warm enough to be considered alive.

 

Castiel wants to believe that he’s wrong, but a hard horror settles deep in his heart.

He knows his history—his teachings—he was _there_.

Abel and Cain—their whole story—now cruelly repeating itself.

 

 

He practically flies down the hall, whirling through the main room and quickly darting up the stairs. Sam is still conducting his futile search—but he’s alerted by the pounding of footsteps on the metal stairs. He bursts into the main room, calling after him.

“Cas? _Cas_ —wait—“

Castiel doesn’t stop.

“I have to go, “ he blurts. “I have to—I must check—“

“Cas—“

Sam’s voice follows him into the crisp night air.

 

“CAS!”

 

* * *

 

 

He gestures to the demon at his side, who hands him an angel blade.

“Crowley forgot what Hell was,” he says, making no effort to hide the bitterness in his tone. “And Abaddon wanted chaos for chaos’s sake.”

He stands, planting his hands on the table.

“But as for me…”

He sweeps his eyes over the line of demons assembled in front of him.

“Things will be different.”

 

He smiles slowly. Most of them refuse to meet his eyes.

He saunters behind the line, trailing the tip of the blade across the back of their necks. He takes note of those who flinch.

“I like a little chaos,” he murmurs.

He turns the blade over in his hands, admiring it casually.

 

“Now. I want a full report. What have you—“

“And why should we listen to you?”

Silence.

 

Dean narrows his eyes.

Second from the end, an old man. The demon possessing him sneers, his thin mouth twisted in disgust.

“I’m not exactly sure why we’re suddenly taking orders from a Winchester.”

The rest of them immediately turn to stare, the air thick with tension. Dean merely raises an eyebrow.

The man continues.

“This has been our enemy for years! And now—we’re suddenly supposed to roll over, because of some glorified tattoo giving him power? I don’t think so—“

Dean curls his fingers, and the demon explodes in a flash of light.

 

They all mutter and gasp, some jumping back as the man falls at their feet, his body burnt out and smoldering. Dean throws them a look, and the remaining demons instantly fall silent.

He casually readjusts his sleeves, his voice hard.

“Word of advice.”

 

His eyes slide to black.

“Don’t interrupt me while I’m talking.”

 

  

* * *

 

 

Sam calls him six times before he picks up.

Castiel deflects his pressing questions, and manages to convince him he doesn’t know anymore than he does. That his hasty exit was merely a product of his devotion to Heaven—or perhaps his fragile emotions forcing him to be alone. Humans accepted that excuse quite easily, Castiel has learned.

 

He does not tell Sam that he is searching desperately through Heaven’s archives—even though every turn of the page is like a fresh wound, to read the words written in Metatron’s hand.

He does not tell Sam what he suspects.

He does not tell him he is searching for any record of the Mark of Cain, and what it does to its bearer.

 

x

 

The second time they speak, Sam tells him the Impala is missing. Castiel’s stomach clenches.

“That means he’s alive, right?” Sam asks desperately.

“Someone took it—so it must be him. It has to be.”

Castiel does not answer.

 

x

 

By the fifth call, Sam’s voice has stopped shaking.

“No word from Crowley. Or any other demon. Crossroads was a bust.”

Castiel nods absently.

“Mmm.”

Sam is quiet on the other end.

“I’ve been keeping an eye out,” he blurts on the other end, after a while.

“For the Impala. Tracking police scanners.”

Castiel murmurs his assent, telling him it is a good idea. He does not tell him that he is intercepting the transmissions to the bunker, and that he has prevented any news of Dean from reaching Sam’s ears.

 

x

 

The angels throw him out of Heaven. Those who were his friends, his followers—they say nothing. Hannah watches sympathetically as he leaves for good, a pariah among his own people. He knows she would have gladly helped him with his fading powers, but most of his brethren still harbor grudges against Castiel—for his sins, on Heaven and in Earth. As their home is reopened and rebuilt, Castiel, with his stolen grace and his many crimes, is shunned. He had expected it, but it still hurts, all the same.

He does not share this with Sam.

 

* * *

 

 

He speeds down the highway, passing in and out of the bars of light whenever a car whirls by him the way opposite, its horn blaring. But mostly, it’s dark.

It’s fun, driving on the wrong side of the road. He loves the vicious tinge of satisfaction that pulses through him whenever the other driver chickens out and veers out of his path.

It happens to a particularly expensive Lexus, its brake lights flaring in his rearview as it spins out and crashes into the side partition. Dean chuckles, easing back in his seat.

He tips his head back, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the windowsill. The cool night air whips through his hair, feeling good on his skin. The Mark sits silent for now, warm and satiated.

His last kill was good. Easy, but good. A nest of cocky-ass vampires, who obviously didn’t understand what they were dealing with.

He enjoyed it, playing with them for a while, but then one of them started getting cheeky. A simple flick of the hand was all it took, decapitating them in one swift stroke.

They were pretty quiet after that.

 

Dean rubs his jaw, remembering their leader. A violent thing, with dark hair and pretty blue eyes. Dean had almost let him bite him, just to see what would happen. He remembers easily holding at bay as it struggled, its hot breath curling against his neck—

Dean lets out a low groan, arching back in his seat, dropping a hand to his jeans. Another flare of light and shriek of a horn, but he barely notices. Instead, he’s thinking about how it’s been almost 16 hours since he got laid.

The last one was some waitress who said she liked the red tattoo on Dean’s arm.

He let her live for that.

 

He makes up his mind and quickly pulls over at the next exit. He buys three drinks and approaches the first sufficiently attractive couple he sees. They agree, because, of course, who would refuse him?—and he takes the woman in long, hard strokes, before rolling over fucking into the man with equal vengeance.

He leaves them sloppy and exhausted in the bed, lacing up his boots and draping his jacket over his shoulder. He pushes out the door, whistling.

 

 

He lays a hand on the handle of the Impala when he catches a scent.

Werewolf.

 

Dean grins. It’s been too long since he ripped out a heart.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam calls to check in with him often now.

He sounds tired. Castiel can relate. He has fallen far enough that he requires sleep again, which slows down his work considerably. It is frustrating.

“Trying to hunt again, but…y’know.”

Sam pauses briefly.

“It’s hard. Wish you were with me, Cas.”

 

Castiel scratches another note with his pen, frowning.

“Sam, I barely have any power left. I’m afraid I would not be much help.”

Over the line, he hears a soft sigh.

“Cas. You’re not just an angel,” he says, heavy patience in his voice. “You’re…you’re my friend.”

Castiel swallows, his throat thick. Sam continues.

“I miss you.”

Castiel cannot speak.

“I miss Dean, too,” Sam says quietly.

Castiel closes his eyes.

 

 

“You heard anything?” Sam asks, after a brief and agonizing silence.

“No,” Castiel lies. “I haven’t.”

 

The call ends shortly after, and Castiel hangs up with an uneasy feeling in his gut. He does not like lying to Sam, but something tells him it’s for the best. Sam does not need to know. He cannot know.

It would break him.

 

 

* * *

  

 

He hands the memo to the man, casually dismissing him.

“Tell the rest. I’ll be here if you have any questions.”

Dean swivels absentmindedly in his chair, dragging the tip of his finger against his teeth. He never thought himself one for leadership, but this…

He arches back against the leather before settling in its depths, staring at the fire.

It was almost too simple. The demons fell before his feet, like the good little soldiers they were. Turns out, claiming Hell for his own had been so easy, it was almost laughable.

Nothing could kill him. Nothing would stand in his way. No angels, no brothers, no morals.

There were no doubts, no little voice in the back of his mind reminding him of his own worthlessness.

Dean smiles. He was born for this. He was  _good_  at it.

 

He was free.

 

 

Then comes the sharp sound of crackling sparks behind him—a sound Dean knows well. The knife rips from the corpse and there’s a soft thump, and the breathing of the one who wields the knife. Dean straightens.

He cracks his neck and puts on a slight smile, then turns in his chair.

“Didn’t think you’d find me so soon,” he says casually, flicking his eyes up to take in his attacker.

But he stops dead when he sees who it is.

 

Not Sam.

Cas.

Castiel.

 

 

Castiel breathes heavily, staring him down. Breaking into this house was more difficult than he anticipated, and he’s unable to keep his breath even for this confrontation.

But the thing in front of him doesn’t seem to care. It doesn’t blink, or twitch, or make any sign that Castiel’s appearance has fazed him at all.

“Castiel,” it murmurs. “What an unexpected surprise.”

He stands slowly, not taking his eyes off him.

“How’d you find me?”

 

Castiel tightens the grip on his blade.

“It wasn’t easy.”

 

It looks like him, it should be him—

But Castiel’s last vestiges of grace show him the true nature of the black twisted thing inside him, hiding behind those green eyes, hard and dark.

 

They were alone—and Dean was unarmed, as far as Castiel could tell. He’s come around to rest against the front of his desk, hands in his pockets, a terrifyingly plastic smile on his face.

Castiel can’t tear his eyes away.

“Perhaps you should have considered giving up your car,” he mutters.

He doesn’t flinch.

“Ah.”

 

The imitation of Dean purses his lips, tipping his head back.

“Sentimental of me.”

He flashes those teeth.

“Guess I shoulda pitched her.”

 

His eyes are hot and terrible, piercing his soul. Castiel grips tighter to his weapon, struggling against the bile rising in his throat.

“Dean,” he breathes. “This isn’t you.”

 

His eyes instantly darken, his voice low and rough.

“God,” Dean mutters. “I thought that at least you’d be creative.”

He smirks, and all the lights in the ceiling burst, showering them with sparks.

Castiel doesn’t dare move.

 

“I know you’re in there,” he whispers. “Dean. Please.”

 

Dean doesn’t answer. Instead, a shiny silver blade slides into his palm, and Castiel’s breath catches.

Dean smiles, his eyes dancing.

“I know you’re in there,” he mocks, twisting the metal in his hand. Castiel feels a sharp pain in his side, and he takes a stumbling step back, a wave of nausea overwhelming him.

“Pathetic,” Dean hisses.

Castiel tries to push himself up, but his head is swimming.

_No. Keep a hold of it—keep a hold of yourself—_

“How you doin’, Castiel?”

 

 

Castiel swallows hard, those eyes suddenly locked on his.

“You got that grace under control?” Dean whispers.

Catiel doesn’t dare move. Dean bares his teeth.

“I thought so.”

He straightens, still toying with the edge of the blade.

“Poor little windup angel,” he taunts softly. “Batteries all drained.”

Castiel tightens his grip on his own blade, breathing through the pain.

“And Daddy isn’t around to fix you,” Dean purrs. “Not this time.”

 

He whirls and plunges the blade into the table, and Castiel takes an unsteady step back.

It stands perfectly on its point, quivering slightly from the force of the strike. The tip is embedded at least an inch in the wood.

Castiel shudders. Dean turns slowly, once again leaning back.

“You know I could summon twenty demons here and have them swarm you,” he murmurs.

His eyes are dancing again.

“Yes,” Castiel says, his eyes never leaving Dean’s. “But you won’t.”

 

Dean stares at him, his expression unreadable. Then his shoulders relax, and he laughs, a throaty, poisonous sound.

“You’re right. I won’t.”

 

He yanks the blade from the desk, eyeing it appreciatively.

“I want to see it,” he murmurs. “See you struggle to your very last breath.”

Castiel slumps a little as Dean starts to pace around the room, turning the blade over in his fingers.

“What do you think, Castiel?”

Castiel turns to him. Dean has placed the tip of the blade to his chin, and exaggerated expression of concentration on his face.

“How about…six?”

 

He snaps his fingers. Castiel crouches, hissing as he takes in the line of demons before him.

For a breathless moment, they’re all frozen, just staring at each other.

“Sic ‘em, boys,” Dean hisses.

 

 

Castiel runs.

 

 

Dean waits patiently until the sounds and clashes of blades fade. He slings the angel blade over his shoulder like a rifle, whistling. He steps over the body of a dead demon just outside the doorway and strolls after them, leisurely following the sounds of chaos down the stairs.

 

x

 

Black eyes stare pitilessly at him, teeth snapping and raging.

Castiel shoves him back and whirls just in time to catch the other with his blade its stomach, pushing its smoking body aside and running. Just a few more feet—

He throws himself forward, and pulls the fire alarm.

 

 

Dean pauses slightly at the raucous ringing coming from inside the dilapidated warehouse. He sniffs the air.

 

 

Castiel watches as the last demon smokes out, and he stands underneath the cold spray, panting. He’s slowly soaked by the water pouring down from overhead, but he doesn’t dare tear his eyes away from the entrance.

Dean steps from the shadows, eyeing the dripping roof above him.

“Holy water,” he remarks. “Inspired.”

“A better hunter than me has done it before,” Castiel mutters.

Dean’s eyes narrow.

 

He lazily waves a hand and at once, the water stops.

 

He saunters over to where Castiel’s blade is lying, knocked out of his hands by his demon attackers.

“Is this really fair, Castiel?”

He kneels down, carefully picking up the blade.

“I can kill you, but you cannot kill me.”

He turns it over in his fingers, smiling as it catches the light.

“Though…I don’t think you would.”

 

He disappears and is in front of Castiel in a heartbeat, yanking his hand towards him and clasping the blade into his palm. Castiel freezes.

Dean spreads his arms, staring him down with hot challenging eyes. Castiel doesn’t move.

“C’mon,” he whispers. He reaches out again, guiding Castiel’s hand until the tip of his blade is on Dean’s chest. “Try.”

Castiel still remains motionless.

Dean smiles slowly, eyes glinting in the light.

“Didn’t think so.”

 

He turns his back, pulling out his own angel blade again.

“They always said you were a fighter, Castiel.”

He turns, fixing those harsh cold eyes on his.

“So let’s see what you got.”

 

 

He's on him before Castiel can even blink, and the first couple of blows take him by surprise. He stumbles, his lungs burning, barely able to keep up. Dean’s blade flashes like lightning, and strike after strike—Castiel can do nothing but block.

 

Dean kicks him back and Castiel hits the ground, anger flaring through him as his instincts kick in—but then he grits his teeth, fighting against it.

It’s not Dean. It’s not him.

He clumsily pushes himself up, struggling with the effort to keep his spine straight.

Dodge left, parry right—he swipes out and Dean blocks it easily, seizing the back of his neck.

“Oh. This is just too easy.”

Castiel shoves against him, but Dean twists his wrist behind his back, and Castiel gasps, ducking his head.

Dean lowers those lips to his ear.

“Always wondered if I could take you in a fight." 

He grips his jaw and inhales, smiling into Castiel’s furious eyes.

 

“But you’re dying, aren’t you?”

Castiel grips the front of his shirt, trying to rip away. But he's too strong. 

Dean's eyes are cold and calculating, roaming all over his face. 

"No fun," he murmurs, and Castiel swears he sees something, something fighting to break through—

But then it's gone, lost in a sea of black.

 

 

Time bleeds together. Castiel doesn't know how long they've been fighting—just that his lip is split, dripping blood, and Dean has yet to break a sweat. Castiel twists to the right and lunges, catching him in a moment of carelessness. If he struck upward now, he could wound Dean—fatally.

He pulls up at the last second, backing away. Dean turns slowly, his eyes narrowing.

“Castiel. I do believe you’re holding out on me.”

 

Castiel sucks down the frigid air, his lungs heaving with the effort to breathe.

“I do not wish to harm you, Dean,” he gasps out.

Dean laughs.

“Oh, like you could?”

Castiel never sees it coming. Dean slashes him, right across the gut, and Castiel staggers back, dropping to his knees. The blood starts running through his hands, and Castiel panics.

He presses a hand to his gut and he heals—just enough to stop the bleeding. But even that small effort takes its toll, and he falls to his hands, panting.

Nothing more than a quick fix—he can still feel the wound there—throbbing, aching under his skin, another reminder of his approaching death.

 

A death that seems very near. Dean strikes him across the face, and Castiel falls, his blade clattering to the floor.

“When this thing moves…”

He grabs his hair and punches him, how many times, Castiel can’t tell.

“The sky bleeds, the ground quakes,” Dean hisses.

He sends him flying, and Castiel's back hits the ground. He thinks he hears something snap. Dean is laughing.

 

Castiel rolls over and spits blood, staining the puddle beneath him. He can taste holy water on his tongue.

“You just don’t know how _good_ it is, angel.”

He can sense Dean kneeling beside him, reaching a hand out and gripping his hair.

“The anger, the power…it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before.”

His fingers stroke almost lazily through his hair, and Castiel holds his breath.

“Perfect,” he murmurs.

 

Dean pulls him up, and that's when Castiel spits.

He gets him right in his face, and Dean yells—the holy water burning his skin, sending him stumbling back. Castiel seizes the moment and tackles him, wrapping his hands around his throat.

Dean hisses, his black eyes filled with rage.

“You’re going to pay for that,” he spits.

 

He kicks and struggles against him, but Castiel holds on tight. He shoves him down, tightening his grip. Dean snarls, bucking and lashing out. Castiel wrenches him around and pulls him into a headlock, squeezing as hard as he can. Dean scrabbles at his grip, hissing curses at him under his breath.

But then, inexplicably, his gasps turn to laughter, and it raises to the ceiling, chilling Castiel's blood.

“You know—“

He rips a hand free and grabs his collar, yanking Castiel down until their faces are barely inches apart.

“I really hate that new trenchcoat,” he seethes.

 

Castiel pulls, throwing them both back, Dean fighting every step. Just a few more feet—

“You can’t kill me,” Dean hisses. “You _can’t_ —“

He scrambles, tugging at Castiel’s hold, choking for breath. He thrashes against him, bucking and squirming in his arms. Castiel tightens the grip, using the last of his strength, his vision spotting black from the effort.

Dean kicks, once, twice—his eyes bugging out, fingers scraping against Castiel’s arm, drawing blood.

 

Castiel shoves him and rolls away, hastily darting out of reach. Dean snarls and runs after him—

Only to be stopped as he hits the edge of the devil’s trap. He freezes.

 

He slowly takes in the burnt black lines in the floor, his face unreadable.

Then he laughs. And laughs. 

 

“Clever, Castiel. Very clever.”

 

Those eyes slide to green again, but that vicious smile doesn’t change.

 

“And just what do you intend to do now?”

 

Castiel wipes blood from his cheek, panting.

 

“You don’t think you deserve to be saved,” he whispers.

 

 

“But you will be.”

 


End file.
